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Who could doat on thing so common,
[Abridged from 18 stanzas.]
HAIL! thou fairest of all creatures
Upon whom the sun doth shine;
And perfections most divine:
Though a stranger to the Muses,
Young, obscured, and despis’d,
That I thus have poetiz’d.
On this glass of thy perfection
If that any women pry,
To adorn themselves thereby:
This thy picture, therefore show I,
Naked, unto every eye;
Neither touch of jealousy;
I am no Italian lover,
That will mew thee in a jail ;
English-like, without a veil.
Yet in this thou may'st believe me,
(So indifferent though I seem) Death with tortures would not grieve me
More, than loss of thy esteem.
Then, as I, on thee relying,
Do no changing fear in thee, So, by my defects supplying,
From all changing keep thou me: That unmatched we may prove, Thou, for beauty ; I, for love.
[Abridged from 12 stanzas.]
SAD eyes, what do you ail,
To be thus ill-disposed ? Why doth your sleeping fail,
Now all men's else are closed?
In any servile duty,
A slave to love and beauty ?
What hopes have I, that she
Will hold her favours ever, When so few women be. .
That constant can persever? Whate'er she do protest,
When fortunes do deceive me, Then she, with all the rest,
I fear, alas! will leave me.
Shall then, in earnest truth,
My careful eyes observe her? Shall I consume my youth,
And short my time to serve her? Shall I, beyond my strength,
Let passion's torments prove me? To hear her say at length,
“ Away–I cannot love thee.”
O, rather let me die
Whilst I thus gentle find her; 'Twere worse than death, if I
Should find she proves unkinder! One frown, though but in jest,
Or one unkindness, feigned, Would rob me of more rest
Than e'er could be regained.
But in her eyes I find
Such signs of pity moving, She cannot be unkind,
Nor err, nor fail in loving. And, on her forehead, this
Seems written to relieve me; My heart no joy shall miss,
That love or she can give me.
And this shall be the worst
Of all that can betide me, If I, like some, accurs’d,
Should find my hopes deride me; My cares will not be long;
I know which way to mend them : I'll think who did the wrong,
Sigh, break my heart, and end them.
[Abridged from 10 stanzas.]
Hence, away, thou Syren, leave me,
Pish! unclasp these wanton arms; Sugar'd words can ne'er deceive me, Though thou prove a thousand charms;
Fie, fie, forbear!
No common snare
Thy painted baits,
And poor deceits,
I'm no slave to such as you be,
Nor shall that soft snowy breast,